


Jumpers

by bitchblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, F/M, First Kiss, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion Fic, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:09:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitchblossom/pseuds/bitchblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock jumps, but she takes a few of John's beloved jumpers with her to the afterlife. Upon her return, John discovers exactly why his closet had been oddly sparse. Schmoopy/angsty reunion scene, with my favorite genderbent Sherlock. Also gratuitous Ginger!lock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jumpers

After an unsuccessful fight to get to Sherlock's body, John was dragged reluctantly home by Mycroft and Anthea and handed over to Mrs. Hudson's motherly care. For several days, he did nothing but sit around the flat drinking tea, staring at Sherlock's empty chair, and re-reading his old accounts of their favorite cases. When he slept, he curled up in Sherlock's bed and wrapped himself in all of the things that reminded him of her. He'd talked to Sarah; he was on bereavement leave from his job, but he told her he didn't intend to come back. A week after the funeral (for which he'd been dressed and marched about by Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft as if he were a puppet), he finally decided to get up and go for a walk. He went up to his room to put on clean clothes, as he didn't quite remember the last time he'd changed, and went to his dresser for his favorite jumper—the oatmeal-colored aran he'd gotten when he was in Ireland on leave. But where was it? It wasn't in any of his drawers, it wasn't in the closet, and he was sure it wasn't downstairs or in the laundry. So he settled on the blue-and-cream striped one, but he couldn't find that one either. Finally he gave up and threw on the first thing he grabbed, reaching for his coat as he went.  


He wandered the miserable streets of London for hours, retracing routes he'd walked or run with Sherlock while she was alive. He walked past St. Bart's and noted the faint traces of blood that they hadn't quite been able to get out of the pavement. He meandered around aimlessly, not going anywhere in particular but somehow ending up at the cemetery standing in front of Sherlock's grave. He knelt on the fresh sod and reached out a hand, touching the simple black stone as if it had been the detective's slim shoulder. He talked to her, pouring out everything that had been building inside him since long before her death. He told her how much he missed her; he missed the cases, the running, Lestrade's annoyance and Donovan's embarrassment when Anderson's floors were mentioned. How he loved the sparkle her eyes had when Lestrade texted with an interesting case and he hated the way Sally Donovan treated her, but loved Lestrade for taking her in as if she'd been his baby sister. He told her how Mrs. Hudson pretended to be relieved, but she really missed the woman who'd made her life interesting for the first time in a while. He was on his knees for close to an hour, talking to a woman who was for all intents and purposes beyond contact, but he didn't care. When he could barely make out the inscription on the stone in front of him he got up and headed for the road, hailing a cab and giving the familiar address.

In a cramped hotel room in Prague, a tall red-headed woman slipped easily into a man's cable-knit jumper, stuffing a blue-and-cream one into a shabby case before clicking it shut and heading out the door. She checked out, hailed a cab, and settled herself in for the hour-long ride to the airport. Pulling a cheap mobile out of her coat pocket, she scrolled through several new texts before she got to the one she was looking for. 'Got out for the first time since the funeral. Wandered around and ended up at the cemetery. I miss you. -JW' Mycroft forwarded her his texts every day. There was always at least one; usually more. She wrote every single one of them in a leather-bound notebook in chronological order, and next to every text she put the answer she wasn't allowed to send. On every page there were odd circular marks, as if the paper had been wet, but had dried. 

A month passed. John's texts became fewer and further between, but he purchased a notebook and began to write letters. Every day he wrote, at least a few lines, to his beloved dead detective. He texted her when he couldn't hold back any longer, but he slowly felt the torn edges of his heart closing up again. The hole was still there, but it was no longer a fresh pain. He never wrote another blog post, preferring to simply re-read the old ones. After a while, Lestrade began to text him with cases, and he responded eagerly. He wasn't as fast as Sherlock had been, but he was dependable, and he became the Yard's new consulting detective. He wrote Sherlock about it, as he did all important things in his life, and moved on. At least, he told himself he moved on. He never found his jumpers.

Sherlock Holmes was gone. In her place were Emma Carelle, red-headed Parisienne stuck in Prague by way of a flubbed flight assignment; Liesl Grutter, statuesque blond columnist for a tiny Hamburg newspaper; Amanda Harris, sandy American tourist visiting Scotland on her long-awaited trip to Europe; and finally Joanne Watson, native of Southern Ireland in London to see her dying English grandmother. Each one unique, each one clever, and each one murderer of another of Moriarty's henchmen. As soon as Joanne pulled the trigger on Sebastian Moran, the last of the lot, Sherlock Holmes let the curtain fall. She finished the final bits of clean up, then sent a text to Mycroft.

I'm finished. Can I see him now? -SH

And how do you propose to do that? The poor man will probably go into cardiac arrest on sight of you. He thinks you're dead. -MH

Don't be stupid, Mycroft, he's far too young for heart troubles. Am I allowed to go back now, or are you going to keep playing puppet master? -SH

He's not as young as he used to be. Be careful, Sherlock. When you're done with that joyful reunion, I wouldn't be adverse to seeing you again too. And I'm sure Mummy would love to know that her only daughter is, in fact, still alive. -MH

I know how to handle John. And do I really have to tell Mummy? -SH

Yes, you do. I'll let you two have a bit of time to yourselves first, though. A week. Then, I'm hunting you down. -MH

Alright, alright. A week. Thank you, Mycroft. -SH

Sherlock ran a hand through her oddly long and still somewhat red hair. Now, to tell John. She'd managed to get her old number back, so John's texts went directly to her instead of through Mycroft. As she stared at her mobile, tapping the keys and wondering what to say, it buzzed with a new text message. John. She opened it up in eager anticipation, but her heart stopped when she read the note.

Sherlock, I know you're not reading this, so I'm not afraid of what I'm about to say. I'm coming after you. Mycroft probably has your phone, so Mycroft, leave me alone. I have to do this, and I don't want you interfering. There's no way you could get here in time, anyway. I love you, Sherlock. -JW

As fast as her fingers would go, she tapped out a reply and sent it.

John, please don't. I'm not dead, and I'm coming back. SH

When his phone buzzed on the table beside him, John was just surprised enough to pick it up and look. When he saw the familiar number on the screen, he couldn't help opening the text, and what he saw made him drop the razor he held in shock.

You can't really be Sherlock. I watched her jump and I felt her pulse. She's dead. -JW

John, wait for me. Five minutes, please. SH

The phone fell to his lap, and he stared at it in disbelief. Sherlock was dead; this was just a trick of Mycroft's to keep him alive until his minions could get there to drag him somewhere where he'd be psychoanalyzed and locked up and watched every second. But there was something at the back of his head that said it was Sherlock, and that if he died now he would miss her by mere minutes. So he waited, wondering which Holmes it would be who'd stopped him. He remembered what he'd written in that first text; the one that was supposed to be his suicide note. He told her he loved her, which was true, but he thought she was dead. He wasn't any less sure that he loved her, but now that she was alive, it made things different. She probably didn't love him, which meant he'd have to pretend he'd never said it and go back to the way things had been before the Fall. It would hurt, but there was nothing he wouldn't do for Sherlock.  
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the staircase. He got up immediately and went to the door, wanting to be there as soon as she was. He opened it somewhat hesitantly, but there she was. She was thinner than she'd ever been and her hair was just past her shoulders and an interesting shade of red, but she was still Sherlock. Their eyes met, and John wordlessly gathered the exhausted woman into his arms, pulling her into the flat and closing the door behind them. He picked her up effortlessly and carried her to the couch, wrapping a blanket around her before getting up to make a pot of tea.  


Not a word had yet been said, but Sherlock could read in John's eyes the pain and hunger of the past three years and the relief of seeing her alive, mixed with concern over her mildly emaciated state. When he stood to go, she reached out and grabbed the nearest available piece of his clothing, which just so happened to be the replacement oatmeal jumper Mrs. Hudson had gotten him that Christmas. He turned and she smiled at him, begging him with her eyes not to go just yet. He took a seat on the floor next to her, and she took his hand, squeezing it in an attempt at comfort. It was then that he noticed her blue-and-cream striped sleeve.  


“Sherlock? Is that.... my jumper?” He was surprised in more ways than one. How had she gotten hold of it? And more importantly, why had she taken it and kept it all these years?  


“Yes, John, it's your jumper. I have to say, I can see why you like them so much now. It was cold in Russia.” She held his curious gaze for several minutes before speaking again. “Please don't be angry with me, John. I just wanted something of you to have with me while I was gone.” She didn't say that the jumpers had been a daily reminder of why she faked her death in the first place.  


“Angry? Of course I'm not angry. It just seems... well, a bit sentimental for you. You've never been the type to... you know...” He wasn't sure what he was trying to say now, so he gave up and laid his forehead on her hand.  


“John...” her voice softened at his confusion. “I saw what you wrote at the end of that text.”  


“That was me about to kill myself. I didn't...”  


“I love you too, John. That's why I took the jumpers. That's why I jumped. Moriarty was going to have you killed if I didn't. I had to protect you. I couldn't come back right away or I would have; I had to get rid of the rest of his gang, and I did. I killed them all, and now I'm back with you, and nothing is ever going to tear me away again.” She smiled through the tears that were soaking the union jack pillow beneath her head, and he looked up and met her eyes again.  


The sight of tears rolling down his precious detective's face was too much for John, and he reached up with his free hand to wipe them away. He rested his hand on her cheek when he'd finished, and she smiled at him like he'd never seen her smile before. Unable to hold back, he leaned over and softly pressed his lips to hers in a long-overdue expression of his affection.


End file.
